Yuri on Skype
by vikuyuri
Summary: Texting late at night, Victor wants to see Yuri's new costume.


In the months after Hatetsu, Yuri texts Victor. Sometimes it's taunts. Sometimes insults. Sometimes photos of Yakov making angry faces. A lot of times, it's artistically lit portraits of his cat.

And then one night, when he's lying in bed and his room is lit only by his phone screen, he texts, _my new costume arrived today. it's better than the pig's_

He doesn't expect a response at this hour. It's a lot later in Japan, and Victor's sleeping by now. So he's scrolling through instagram, (Chris has a new video up—how has Instagram not taken this down yet? Obscene) (Yuri watches it three times) waiting for his brain to slow down to match his body's exhaustion, and he's surprised when the reply pops up at the top of his screen.

 _Really?_

And then, _Show me_

Yuri sits bolt upright, and his chest tightens in a way that's not unfamiliar, but still not something he can fully name. He's glad it's dark, and glad he's alone. He's glad his door is closed and locked, even though there's nothing wrong with this exchange. Just three words—of course Victor wants to see his costume. It's professional interest. Checking out the competition. Yuri's reading too much into it.

He takes a deep breath and sends the selfie he took earlier, when he tried it on at the rink. He took about twenty, but deleted nineteen of them. In this one, he's pulling a face and pushing his hair off his face. The pose is calculated to look carefree and casual while showing off his long neck, the slim line of his arm.

He sits in the dark and watches as the three dots appear, then disappear, then appear again. Finally, Victor's reply is: _Cute, but I can't see the costume :(_

Yuri scowls. _you'll see it when i win skate canada._

 _Brat_ , Victor sends immediately. _Do you have it with you?_

And then, _My phone's dying. Skype me._

That tightness in his chest has spread through his whole body, an anxious tension like the thrill before a competition. And like every competition, he wants to win. He hesitates only a moment before sending back, _if i do, you have to wear what i tell you to too_

 _It's a deal_ , sends Victor, and then nothing else.

Yuri holds onto the phone for another second. He would never admit it, but he _likes_ Victor telling him what to do. He might like it more than telling Victor what to do. He reminds himself not to get his hopes up. Surely Victor doesn't think about Yuri the way Yuri thinks about him.

Even so, Yuri hops out of bed and turns on the desk lamp. He shrugs out of his pajamas, then takes a moment to stretch upwards and upwards. His arms sweep down, and he rolls his head around. The movement releases none of the tension thrumming through him.

He considers digging out a dance belt, then decides—and heat runs down his spine— to skip it. His costume hangs in his closet. As he shimmies into it, he's glad it doesn't have any sequins or crystals that he can accidentally pop off. (Agape is stressful to get into. Well made as it is, Yuri's always very careful. He doesn't want to pay for repairs.) He runs his hands over his body, checking for wrinkles, and arranges the collar just so.

Something about the slick, clinging fabric holds him together. His nerves coalesce into pure excitement. Victor wants to talk to him, and Yuri's going to get what he wants from him. Just as soon as he decides exactly what that is.

He sits at his desk and wakes up his laptop. Skype seems to take forever to load, and then when he calls, it takes forever to connect. He wonders if Victor will pick up or not. Yuri spends the interim spinning around in his desk chair, kicking off against the desk drawer for momentum.

A loud, "Hi, Yura," nearly startles him off the chair. Cursing, he grabs the desk to stop his spin and lunges for the volume.

"Not so loud," he hisses.

Victor laughs. "Sorry, sorry." His room at the inn is dimly lit too, but what light there is catches bright in his hair. It looks like he's lying on his stomach in his futon. He's propped up on his elbows, chin in one hand, and his cheeks are red, his eyes hooded. His yukata gaps open, baring a broad triangle of chest. "Let me see your costume, Yura," he drawls slowly, so low it _does things_ to Yuri's insides.

Yuri leans forward against the desk, mirroring Victor's pose with his chin in one hand, and says, "Are you _drunk_ , old man?"

"A little." Victor's jerking move is probably supposed to be a shrug. "Does that bother you?"

"No."

"Good," Victor says. "Now, stand up. I want to see you."

Yuri sticks his tongue out, but obeys. His hands and face are hot. Everything's hot, as he kicks the chair across the room and takes a few steps back. The desk lamp isn't too bright, but it should show everything—the sleek black, the vivid flames, the translucent mesh. He tightens his belly and draws his shoulders up. It's strange wearing this barefoot, without a dance belt, without his hair done. With only one person watching him. Victor's silent gaze is so intense, it's nearly palpable through the clinging fabric. The seconds stretch and build and pile on each other, and it's Yuri who breaks and demands, "Well? What do you think?"

Victor's sigh is a cloud of smoke, obscuring something hotter. "You're gorgeous, Yuri."

"The _costume_ ," Yuri starts, before the compliment fully registers, and then his thoughts stutter out. He stares at Victor on the screen, tries to see some hint of mockery, and finds none.

"Turn around for me," Victor murmurs.

Yuri licks his lips. Then, when Victor makes a _sound_ , he does it again. Victor's watching him, nothing but him, and they're six hours apart but it feels like he's never been closer to getting what he wants. He runs his fingers from his neck over his collarbone and across his torso, tracing the flames, and Victor's eyes follow his fingers down and down.

He turns slowly, and when Victor gestures, he turns again. Then he drags the chair back over and sits, both feet up on the seat. "My costume's the best, isn't it? But it's better in the light."

"I think it's better this way," Victor says. "I like your hair messed up like this. Were you texting me in bed?"

"So what?" Yuri snaps. "You're in bed right now."

Victor laughs. His hand slides up his face, through his hair, and his gaze seems brighter. He's sobering up, but he's not pulling back. So Yuri takes a deep breath and says, "Okay, my turn now."

Victor's eyebrows rise. "I don't have a new costume to show you."

"Moron. You said if I showed you, then you'd wear whatever I tell you."

"Hm, did I? Okay, kitten. What do you want me to wear?"

Yuri leans forward, and smirks, and says, "Nothing."

He expects a laugh, a gasp, any act of surprise. Instead, all he gets is Victor's deepening smile. "You little pervert," Victor says, but he sits up and picks the laptop up too. The screen jerks around, and then Victor's clearly set the computer on something. A box, a low table, Yuri can't remember exactly what's in his room. It doesn't matter. What matters is Victor kneeling on the futon and leaning close—so his yukata gaps open even further—to adjust the screen angle, then sitting back on his heels. He reaches for the knot at his waist, and Yuri's breath catches.

He's seen Victor naked before. Plenty of times. In locker rooms. In the hot spring. One very memorable time in a hotel lobby. This is completely different: Victor's long, pale hands moving slowly and steadily, loosening the yukata tie, slipping under the collar to slide the fabric aside. His eyelashes lower, and his expression is hard to read. Lamp and moon light his skin in gold and silver, and Yuri thinks, _He's so beautiful, he can't be real_.

Real or not, in this one moment, that beauty is all Yuri's. No one else's.

The cotton falls silently from Victor's shoulders. He's clearly lost none of his lean strength in his retirement, and it's been a long time since Yuri felt so young. He's spent the last two years fixated on Victor—on _all_ the older skaters. He sizes them up as his competition, assessing them as rivals and peers. But off the rink, here in the dark of their bedrooms, thousands of miles apart, it's never been clearer how much older and stronger Victor is.

And how much Yuri _likes_ that.

As if reading his thoughts, Victor says, "Like what you see?"

Yuri's face goes hot, and he wonders if Victor can see his flush. He tries for snark but it comes out high and breathy: "Not too bad."

It's worth it for the wicked glint in Victor's smile. And then the yukata's all the way off, and tossed to the side, and Victor is completely bare for him, from shoulders to the gently heaving ribs. From the washboard plane of his belly to his thick, muscled thighs, to the hair trailing down to curl around his cock, only somewhat obscured by shadows and screen resolution. Yuri can't help staring, as he's never let himself stare before. He can tell Victor's half-hard, and his cock is dark and plump against his thigh.

He struggles for something more to say. He wants a hundred things—for Victor's hand to move further down, for Victor to turn around, for Victor to suck on his fingers and whisper Yuri's name. He doesn't know where to start.

And in that lingering moment of indecision, Victor reaches over and grabs the yukata again.

"Wait!" Yuri says, desperate. This can't be all he gets. "I'm not—"

Victor's smile has lost none of its wickedness. "It's past your bedtime, Yura. And I'm tired." His tone brooks no argument.

Yuri takes a shaky breath. "Fine. Asshole. Get your beauty sleep, old man—on one condition."

"What's that?" Victor slides the yukata back up his arms, but lets it hang open around him.

"You have to call me again tomorrow night."

Victor runs his fingers over his lips, and leans closer to the computer. "Hm. I guess. But if I call, I expect _you_ to get naked this time."

He ends the call, leaving Yuri gaping at the screen. He's all wound up in a coiled mess of longing, embarrassment, and arousal, and he's never been harder in his life. He scrambles to his feet and tugs at his costume, with only one frantic thought left in his mind: he needs to take the damn thing off before he comes in it.


End file.
